


i don't want to think at all

by bevcrushers (dothraloki)



Category: Star Trek: The Next Generation
Genre: F/F, Friends to Lovers, Insomnia
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-18
Updated: 2015-09-18
Packaged: 2018-04-21 09:15:51
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,363
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4823462
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dothraloki/pseuds/bevcrushers
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>She remembers nights where Tasha had turned up, tears streaking black mascara down her face and Deanna had done nothing but hold her tight and listen because that's what Tasha needed the most. She remembers other nights where they'd giggled about the antics of the bridge, something embarrassingly naïve Data had said, or the way some cute crewmember had flirted with them in Ten Forward and she thinks really, she needs it as much as Tasha does.</p>
            </blockquote>





	i don't want to think at all

There are a few things Deanna's gotten used to on board the ship.

For one, there's that lag in the computer system. Whenever she tried to enter in a new log there's a couple of seconds pause as the system hurries to keep up with the command - barely even noticeable really. She'd been meaning to ask Geordi about it though, had been since she'd noticed it, but as with anything, other responsibilities had occupied her mind and soon enough two years had shot by and Geordi was none the wiser. She doesn't suppose it matters much either way, it certainly hadn't been injurious, it hadn't impacted on her role on board the ship and to tell the truth it had just become one of those little quirks she'd gotten used to.

Or, for example, the little process the captain goes through whenever she asks about his emotional state. She has it memorized now – the way he rubs his chin and widens his eyes, he'll look away for a few moments, jaw tightening, then he'll stand and straighten his jacket, expression shy, embarrassed almost. It makes him feel cornered - she'd realized it only a couple weeks into the mission, a sudden burst of clarity. It was difficult for him, having to be asked something personal, something that couldn't just by brushed away with a brief 'fine, counselor.' She supposes it'll get better with time.

There's Beverly's early morning yoga sessions. The first couple of times Bev had showed up at her door, leotard and all, expression almost offensively excited for the hour at which she'd called, Deanna had honestly thought this is what torture felt like. She'd bent and flexed and touched her toes all the same, albeit begrudgingly, because that's what friends are for. Then something snapped in her brain, and the fourth time Bev showed up, she'd answered the door with her own answering smile and spent the next hour gossiping happily in the half moon position.

Then there's Tasha's late night visits. It took her weeks, months even to recognize the pattern; she doubts even that Tasha had picked up on it. It'd become a sort of second nature to expect the chime at her door, in the same way she always ordered a Belgian Sunday after her shift on a Friday afternoon. In fact, even saying that they were 'late night' visits wasn't entirely accurate; sometimes Tasha came straight from her shift, sometimes they meandered lazily down the corridors, both knowing where they were going to end up without ever needing to verbalize it. Deanna doesn't invite her in anymore, and Tasha doesn't bother asking because what'd be the point? 

She remembers nights where Tasha had turned up, tears streaking black mascara down her face and Deanna had done nothing but hold her tight and listen because that's what Tasha needed the most. She remembers other nights where they'd giggled about the antics of the bridge, something embarrassingly naïve Data had said, or the way some cute crewmember had flirted with them in Ten Forward and she thinks really, she needs it as much as Tasha does. There are times where the door doesn't chime, and Deanna finds herself hoping, waiting, two wine glasses already set out on the coffee table.

She's been giving it a lot more thought these days, not consciously - perhaps she's still not willing to look at it _too_ closely - but when the door goes at eighteen hundred hours, Deanna notices a jolt in her stomach that she'd never before given herself space to acknowledge. She doesn't care to analyse it, not now, because Tasha's still in her uniform, hair ruffled from eight hours of duty, and there's a certain weariness in her voice when she says “you'll never believe the day I've had.”

They sit and chat, synthehol flowing freely. At some point switching to harder, realer stuff because the situation calls for it. Tasha had tsked playfully at her when Deanna had revealed the case of vintage underneath her bed.

“My mother brought it for me from Betazed," she pauses, pouring the glass out, "but I can understand if you wouldn't want any. Quite unbecoming of a Starfleet officer.”

“Screw that,” said Tasha grabbing it out of her hand. Deanna watches with a certain detached interest as Tasha drains the glass in one, throat working, holding it out for seconds. “God, I needed that.”

They end up lounging idly back on Deanna's bed, glasses perching precariously on the side table. Deanna feels pleasantly warm and buzzed, which, in hindsight, probably allows her to ask, apropos of nothing. “Have you noticed we always end up doing this?”

“What do you mean?” says Tasha, slightly distracted as she braids three long strands of Deanna's hair.

“We always end up here, in my quarters,” she says. “Like a routine.”

She's met with silence. The hand in her hair freezes. Deanna has the vague feeling she's made a misstep somewhere.

Then Tasha says, so quietly Deanna has to strain to hear it, “I can go, if you like.”

Deanna stops her, hand resting on hers. They both look down at the contact, and then Deanna makes the decision, entwining her fingers in Tasha's. “I didn't mean it like that.”

Tasha says nothing for a long time, and Deanna wonders whether she's done much more damage than she thought but then Tasha shrugs, blasé attitude so carefully constructed Deanna's heart aches a little. “Sometimes, I can't sleep. Seeing you, talking to you - it helps a little.”

“Oh,” says Deanna. It makes sense, of course it makes sense, and Deanna feels a twinge of guilt at being so insensitive, for not fitting together the pieces together months ago. “Can you sleep after?”

“Not always,” says Tasha, attention fixed pointedly at the wall behind her. “But it's better.”

“So that's why -”

“That's why,” says Tasha, before catching herself. “Not that there aren't other reasons, I'm not using you. I _like_ -”

“I know,” says Deanna, squeezing her hand a little tighter. “I also know that it can't be easy.”

Tasha masks slips a little, softening around the edges. “You're treating me like your patient.”

“Stay here,” she says it before she can stop herself, before that reliable part of her mind steps in. “I mean, you can if you want. To stay here. It could help with the insomnia.”

Tasha's gaze, finally, _finally_ meets hers. She raises her eyebrows, lips twisted in a half smile. “Are you always so personal with your patients?”

“No,” Deanna says honestly. "Never."

Tasha swallows, expression caught between raw and dumbfounded. “Okay.”

They wash up and dress quickly, quietly. Deanna hands her spare nightwear in silence, and Tasha takes it without a word. There's an elephant in room, Deanna thinks, and it's not going to stay unnoticed for much longer – it can't.

The computer turns out the lights as they slip into her bed, and it's not the first time she's shared a bed with Tasha, but it's the first time it feels like this, with something thick and undefinable hanging over them, and she can feel Tasha next to her, lying rigid, uncomfortable. She finds her hand again in the darkness, clutches it tight.

“Thank you,” says Tasha, voice soft like she's afraid to disturb the peace. Deanna turns her head towards her, already aware of Tasha's gaze on her, though undoubtedly rendered blind by the dark. They stay like that for a long time, a silent game of dare between them until Tasha's lips meet hers, tentatively, like she's afraid she's interpreted the whole thing wrong, like she's used to the rejection. Deanna's hand moves seemingly without her notice, up Tasha's arm to cup her by the jaw and it's a chaste kiss ultimately, but Deanna's heart is racing a mile a minute under her breastbone.

She's the first to lean in the second time, the first drag her fingers through short blonde hair, to draw her closer until they draw apart, Deanna's forehead resting against hers, fingers still entwined. Then Tasha leans back, tucking Deanna's chin under her head, holding their hands together against her stomach. She doesn't say anything. She doesn't need to.

 

 


End file.
